Feared In Field and Town
by Stephantom
Summary: Before casting the curse, the Queen decides she'd rather not play Rumpelstiltskin's game.
1. Prologue

**Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down:  
>I am fear'd in field and town: Goblin, lead them up and down<strong>.

—Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_

In the prison underground, nothing ever changes. There are no days and no nights, no clear skies, no storms. There will be no sign of the curse here when the time comes. But Rumpelstiltskin will know. He's seen it coming for nearly a year now.

_Tonight_. It will happen tonight.

Of course, things haven't played out quite as he predicted. He's disappointed in himself for that. He doesn't like losing—that's why when the opposing forces in this realm butt heads, he just laughs and gives them both a hand. He'll play along only so long as _his _game is rigged, win-win. But somehow, this time, in what might be the _biggest _game he's ever played, it's gone wrong.

The Queen came to him not long ago, just as he knew she would. She needed his help and he was only too happy to give it—for a price. She listened coolly as he gave his terms.

"Fine." Unsurprised. Impatient.

"I wasn't finished yet!" he sang. It was delicious. He could hardly contain himself. He was pushing it, he knew—pushing _her_, but how could he not? She was so desperate, so very, very worried.

At his last condition, the queen's eyes narrowed. "That's quite a lot of power you're looking to gain."

"The same to you, my dear! What you've got in mind is no cheap trick. It'll take sacrifice—cooperation." He leaned in close, bringing his head through the bars. "You need me for this. So take the deal."

Her eyebrows rose. "You're not the only creature in this realm with magical knowledge."

"Oooh, but no one knows _this curse_ like I do!" he crooned, pointing a single long-nailed finger at her.

She shook her head. "Surely there is _someone_ else." Her voice fell to nearly a whisper. "There must be."

For a moment, neither spoke; they watched each other in silence, the air between them seeming to grow cold, their pretense of friendship slipping.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled. "What's wrong, dearie?" he asked, the words dripping sweetness, a vocal caress. "Don't you trust me?"

"I don't see why I should," she replied. "Given what you just asked of me. Given that you've been communicating with _her_."

"I can hardly help it, dear," he said quietly, a trace of bitter laughter in his voice. "I_ am_ in her prison. If she and her charming husband decide to drop in, I can't exactly turn them away, now, can I?"

The queen leaned in close, her black eyes wide with disbelief and fury. "You _warned _them," she hissed. "You told them they could save their child."

"No!" He made a horrified face, held up a hand in protest and clarified, "I told them their child can break the curse."

She seemed to study him, black eyes gleaming in the torchlight; then slowly, a small, dark smile formed on the queen's face.

"You had better hope it does," she said, voice low, with all the weight of an official decree. "Because _you_are going to suffer in this new world of mine as much as any of them. I'll not help you." And with that, she vanished, leaving behind only a momentary wisp of smoke and a stifled dread that tingled through his whole body.

So abruptly alone again, in the claustrophobic cavern of his prison, Rumpelstiltskin giggled. The sound echoed softly.

_She'll come back_, he thought, slinking back into the dark corners of his cell. _If she wants to enact this curse—and she does, she does _so badly_—she'll come back_.

But she didn't. Somehow she figured out, without him, how to cast the curse. She must have. Because the future hasn't changed in that regard, as far Rumpelstiltskin can see. It is still coming. And soon.

The torches that light the tunnel to his cell have all burnt out. It is utterly dark. Idly, he climbs the spear-like bars of his cage by feel, dragging his hands across the cold, damp surface of the ceiling when he reaches the top. At least he knows the child's name. There is still that. He'll lose most of who he is (he'll lose, lose, lose) but names will always hold power for him—when she comes for them, still bearing her true name, he'll remember and he'll rise.


	2. BLACK: he thinks he dreamed of darkness

He wakes up in a jail cell. He knows that's where he is without even opening his eyes. He thinks he hasn't been there for very long, but a more precise assessment dissolves before he can grasp it, broken up like his brain's got bad reception. There's a soft, incessant tapping sound coming from across the room.

It's daytime. Sunlight is shining in through a window; his closed eyelids are back-lit with it—orange and warm and bright. He risks cracking an eye open and it's just as painful as he'd imagined it would be, but it's also strangely pleasant. He thinks he dreamed of darkness.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, drags a hand through his hair, and looks around the room, blinking blearily, registering little. (It's all familiar_, _and yet. And yet...?) His mind seems to be waking up very slowly this morning. The tapping sound has stopped. Black looks in the direction it was coming from to find the sheriff, Graham, watching him warily.

Graham nods. "Morning, Mr. Black."

Mr. Black. Donald Black. Yes, that's him. He returns the nod. The sheriff resumes typing.

He starts emptying his pockets; he can't remember what he's got on him and it's something to do. He finds several balled-up scraps of paper that say things like, _My Dad is geting me Black-Ops for my birthday, but I promise, to send it to you Misster Black, when I get it. Aidan Pole_. Black smiles. Poor little jackass. Black doesn't even have the game console required for this item he will be inheriting, but that's beside the point.

Pockets officially empty, he stares down at his things, spread out beside him on the thin striped mattress: numerous "IOU"s aside, all he's got is a handful of receipts, a squashed pack of cigarettes and a worn-looking wallet with next to nothing in it.

"Cigarette?" he offers, placing one between his lips.

Graham waves a hand in his direction, as if to bat him away. "Don't even think about it—you know you can't smoke in here."

"I'd be happy to take it outside, if you like," he says around the cigarette, feeling his spirits start to lift.

"Am I going to have to confiscate those?"

"Feel free, if it means you'll give me something in return. Those keys, for instance."

"I don't think that request deserves an answer," Graham says tersely. "Put it away."

"Relax," he says, chuckling. He doesn't say, "_Worth a shot_" because it wasn't really; sometimes bargaining is just an empty gesture, instinctive.

He tucks the cigarette back into its box. "Lighter's gone missing anyhow."

Graham rolls his eyes and turns back to his computer.

Black taps out a rhythm on the otherwise useless cigarette pack. Stares at the blinds on all the windows. Wasn't there something... else? This isn't the plan. (Has he ever _had_ any plans?) He shifts his weight on the bench/bed. Rolls his shoulders. Ignores the creeping edges of anxiety and boredom. He feels like there's an itch he can't locate. A nerve gone haywire.

Graham yawns, breaking their long silence, and Black shifts his gaze toward him again. Something about him—his posture, maybe, or the way his jaw is set—makes Black suspect the sheriff might _also _be feeling slightly _off_, so he wonders aloud, "What would it take for you to let me out of here?"

Without so much as glancing away from the screen, Graham responds. "You can pay your bail."

Black lets out a sharp huff of laughter. "Bit of a problem there. You see, I don't actually have any cash on me right now. Got a bit carried away at the slot machines. You understand."

With a long-suffering sigh, Graham replies, "That's not my problem, is it?"

Black grins tightly, a grimace more than a smile. "I could make it yours." He gets up from the bench and hobbles—one of his legs is less than perfectly sturdy—over to the bars, which he leans into casually. "I assure you: I can be _very_ irritating. I'll sing, if I have to." At that, Graham finally looks back at him again, eyebrows raised. Black jerks his head in the direction of the computer. "How much work have you got left there?"

"Plenty," says Graham flatly. "But I'm in no rush." He slides his seat back from his desk. "You know what? I'm hungry. And the food here's not very appetizing. Fortunately, unlike some people, I can actually come and go as I please." He gets to his feet and pulls on his coat.

Black watches him go, feeling gratified (he's certainly gotten under the man's skin) and then annoyed (what will he do now?).

"Aren't I supposed to have a phone call?" he asks, but the sheriff is already heading through the door. "Hey!" He's shouting now. "I want my phone call! Hey!"

There's no response. It occurs to him that he wouldn't know who to call anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

1) Rumpelstiltskin's new Storybrooke name was chosen for "Black Donald," a devil figure in Scottish folklore who can't quite disguise himself successfully, due to his cloven feet and an inability to gain the trust of tailors (or so the internet tells me). Also, I like that, in moving from the top of the food-chain to somewhere much further down, he's gone from "gold" to "black." Other appropriate connotations include: black-market, black-listed. So, yeah, that's his name in this universe.

2) Aidan Pole is my Storybrooke version of Candlestick (renamed Lampwick by Disney) from _Pinocchio._


	3. RED: this book is full of wolves

**Notes:** So obviously I don't own the show or characters. But beyond that, it's a little ridiculous, really, how much of this I owe to **cyprith** who was an enormously helpful beta.

* * *

><p>Ruby doesn't think twice when she gets dressed for work in the morning. She throws on the uniform blouse, leaves several buttons undone, and ties the ends into a knot above her belly button. Shorts, criminally short and bright, bright red. She finishes her make-up in the mirror—dramatic, she thinks, eye-catching (<em>wolfish<em> whispers another voice)—and pulls a grotesque face, offering her reflection the middle finger. She grins. She likes the way she looks; at least _something _in this town isn't dull. The diners' reactions amuse her, from the gawking and awkward to the scandalized and disapproving. It's almost sad, really, how the sight of her ass never fails to shock.

The early morning shift passes slowly from coffee refill to refill, eggs and bacon in between. The town sheriff comes in just before nine and sits at table three, one of the window booths.

He's cute. Cartoon cute. Dark brown scruff and green-blue eyes, that curly flop of golden hair tumbling over his forehead _just so_—and the accent doesn't hurt. But he's a _cop _and he's totally hooking up with the _mayor_, so she can only roll her eyes when her friends giggle about him. (It's kind of ironic, really, that half of the town is convinced she'll sleep with anything that moves.)

"Morning, sheriff." She flashes a smile, one hand on her hip. (Just because she doesn't want him doesn't mean she can't flirt.)

"Can I start you off with some coffee?"

"That'd be great, thanks." He nudges his coffee mug forward, then stops, covering it with his hand. "Actually, do you think—I don't suppose you could make it an Irish coffee today?"

Out of politeness, she resists raising an eyebrow. "Coming right up."

She returns with his coffee, now fixed with a generous helping of whiskey. The sheriff immediately starts to gulp it down; Ruby decides politely ignoring that would just be silly.

"Rough morning, huh? Or was it a rough night?" She winks.

He rolls his eyes. "It's just that shit Donald Black," he sighs. "We've got him locked up at the station and he's been there for"—he gestures vaguely and Ruby nods—"a while. He's not going to make bail, which means he can't be released up until and for the duration of his trial. It's a small prison. It's really not made for holding people long-term. But we keep running into difficulties trying to transfer him. Honestly, I think I'm suffering more than he is, here."

She gives a non-committal, possibly sympathetic, "Hmm."

"Sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you about this."

"Oh. No, it's fine." She smiles. "I asked, right?"

He orders an omelet with a side of home-fries and Ruby leaves him to check in with the other customers. As usual, the diner is full of regulars and empty tables, except for a family of four that's stopped in off the highway for food and gas. The dad's eyes follow the sway of her hips as she approaches their table; the mom just glares. Ruby greets them innocently. Asks them where they're from. Offers crayons to the kids. Ruby knows just how to play it so the dad is charmed and the mom is starting to feel bad about judging her—she's not a _slut_, just sweet and dumb! (Guilty embarrassment pays for great tips.)

The sheriff's emptied his coffee mug when she finally gets back to him with breakfast.

"Anything else I can do for you?"

He looks up at her from beneath that golden-brown mop. "Actually, I'd like to talk to you about something, if you have a minute."

She glances around at the other tables, gauging how much time she has. "Make it quick." He gestures at the empty seat across from him; she complies, giving him a wry look. "If my boss sees me _sitting down_, I'm gonna' catch hell."

"Tell her you're helping with police work." Ruby tenses at that but tries not to, because honestly, what did she_ think_he meant when he said he wanted to talk?

"Sure," she says, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"You were friends with Sean Herman, weren't you?"

Ruby blinks. _Sean Herman. _The name sends a jolt of alarm through her and suddenly she pictures him: _Sean_, reclining on his basement couch, surrounded by friends. Laughing. Throwing popcorn. Grabbing a pillow to shield himself from the return volley of cheese-puffs. His prom pictures up on the mantel—looking like royalty.

She had actually _forgotten. _She'd gone through her whole damn morning without thinking about it—about him—at all. How was that possible?

"Yeah, I knew him," she says distantly. "Not well. He's a couple years younger than me."

"You were at his house the night of the accident. Correct?"

Ashley tugging her hand and throwing them both off balance. Saying, _Oh, Ruby, I can't stand it, he's so cute! Did you see how he put his arm around me?_

"Yeah," says Ruby. "So were a lot of people."

The sheriff nods. "Can you tell me anything about that night?"

"To be perfectly honest, I really don't remember much." She looks out the window at the street. "The whole thing is kind of a big, weird blur. I totally lost track of…Sean."

He frowns. "You had a lot to drink, I take it?"

She nods and throws a nervous glance around the diner, although, why, she doesn't know. It's not like her to feel ashamed or embarrassed about something like that. But it's _weird _how little she remembers—she's never, never blacked out like that. But when she tries to remember this, she gets these tiny snatches of things—impressions; they feel more like dreams than memories.

"Do you know where the alcohol at the party came from?" he asks.

Ruby rests her chin in her hand and stares at the table.

"Ruby." The sheriff looks at her intently "This is important. I know you're trying to protect your friend, but—"

"She said she bought it at a liquor store a couple towns over." The information seems to supply itself from nowhere; Ruby hadn't known she remembered until she opened her mouth. "She used her cousin's I.D."

"Who?" he prompts. She looks at him and thinks about refusing to answer. But she's pretty sure he already knows, or at the very least, will hear it soon from someone else. It was no secret who brought the booze.

"Ashley Boyd. She wanted to impress Sean."

The sheriff opens his mouth and doesn't say anything.

Ruby knows the system. He doesn't get to call the shots, not really, but she hopes all the same that he'll understand and back off. Leave it alone. What does he expect to accomplish? What is there to investigate? A bunch of kids at a party one night decide to take some canoes out on a lake. One kid doesn't come back. End of story. It's maybe tragic, maybe just fucking dumb, but either way, it's done. Sean's dead. And anyone who might be responsible has already been punished.

"So," she says. "Is that it?"

"Ashley Boyd told you she bought it herself," he repeats slowly. "From where exactly?"

Ruby stands, grabs his empty cup. She can't do this anymore.

"I don't know. You want another one of these?"

He waves a hand, no. "She told the police she got it from Black."

She blinks. "That's what he's locked up for?" He nods. "Ashley never mentioned anything about him to me."

The sheriff shakes his head, squinting at the untouched omelet in front of him. Like maybe it knows something.

Ruby doesn't know what else to say so she leaves him. Gets back to work. There's a family of four that she just might be able to talk into ordering dessert.

* * *

><p>Granny is cooking when Ruby gets home that evening. She turns to smile a hello at Ruby over her shoulder. The smile falters, her eyes narrowing, as she looks Ruby up and down.<p>

The teakettle whistles and Granny moves to get it. "Well, how was your day?"

Ruby shrugs, slipping off her sneakers. "Same as always."

Granny holds out a cup of tea for her, nodding. "Well, if you want change you have to make change. You could start with something simple. A new _look_, perhaps?" She eyes Ruby critically over her lowered glasses.

"_Granny_." Ruby shoots her an annoyed look as she takes her tea. "Don't."

Granny holds up a hand in surrender. "It was only a suggestion. You can't blame an old woman for trying." She eases herself down into one of the kitchen chairs. "I promised your mother I'd do right by you, after all." She shakes her head. "I hate to think of what she'd say if she were here now."

A guilt trip, awesome. Ruby drains her tea, glaring up at the ceiling, grabs her shoes and heads for the stairs.

"Are you at least going to join me for supper?" Granny calls after her. "It's almost ready!"

"I ate at work!" Actually, working at the diner has turned Ruby off from eating there, but she's too irritated right now to sit down with Granny for a whole meal. She'd move out in a heartbeat if she weren't so afraid that Granny might have another attack the second Ruby gets more than five minute away from her.

Bedroom door shut and locked, Ruby tosses her shoes carelessly into a corner; her work shirt follows, switched out for a comfy black t-shirt. Like stripping paint. Scraping off that part of her the diner owns.

She stretches out on her bed, her back against the headboard. She'll relax for a little bit—take a nap, maybe, or do some sketching—and then she'll go out. Call some friends.

Friends not in Sean Herman's crowd, ideally. She doesn't want to mourn; she wants to forget. It was easy enough this morning.

She reaches under her bed, gets out her sketchbook and charcoal pencils, and starts to draw. (A wolf again—this book is full of wolves: wolves curled up and sleeping, wolves howling up at cold skies, wolves with teeth bared and bloody. She's tried drawing other things but she never feels finishing anything else.)

Her mind wanders as she works. For some reason, she finds herself thinking about Donald Black. Stuck at the police station, probably for the duration of his trial—whenever that even gets started. It's not right, she thinks, for someone to be imprisoned before being found guilty.

Even if he probably _is_ guilty. Ruby wouldn't find it hard to believe if Ashley had asked him to buy for her and then lied about it to her friends. Black is known around town as a low-life creep; Ashley would have been embarrassed about _talking_ to him—nevermind getting his help for something illegal. Using a fake would have seemed somehow more acceptable, more glamorous. Not that Ruby would have cared if Ashley had told her the truth. She'd have been… curious.

The eyes of a new wolf glare up at her from the page.

Ruby stares back, entranced. She shuts the book. It really isn't fair that something _she created_ has the power to unnerve her so much.

A glance at the clock tells her nearly forty minutes have passed since she came home. She tucks her drawing supplies away and gets up, feeling that familiar itch—she needs to get out; she can't stay here collecting dust like everything else in this inn. She changes her clothes in the mirror, trying and shedding so many different looks that she starts to feel like she's losing her mind. In the end, she goes with dark jeans and a sleeveless little red hoodie.

She thinks about changing again.

"Fuck it."

Bracelets, black pumps, out the door.

* * *

><p>She doesn't have a particular destination in mind when she pulls out of the driveway. She just drives. It's only when she sees the police station that realizes her thoughts have turned to Black again. She presses down on the breaks, slowing to a crawl. Hesitating.<p>

Fuck it. She pulls into the station parking lot. She wants to see the guy and she doesn't know why but she doesn't care—she's doing it. Maybe actually talking to him will help her decide whether he's someone they can blame and punish and push all of this on: the occurrence of tragedy—a seventeen-year-old boy drowned drunk in a lake.

Black looks up as she walks in his eyes go first to her shoes, clicking against the linoleum—it was the sound that made him turn—and then flick up to her face. He smiles—just fucking _smiles_—holding her gaze.

The sheriff comes in from an adjacent room, stopping in the doorway when he sees her. "Uh, hi." He looks at her, clearly at a loss. "Ruby. Did you remember something else about—?"

"No. No, I—" She glances from him to Black's cell at the other end of the room. "Actually, I came here to see Mr. Black."

The sheriff raises both eyebrows.

Across the room, behind bars, Black does the same. "Really," he says. "How kind of you."

The sheriff glances back and forth between them. Ruby shrugs at him, waiting for him to get over whatever his problem is. "Ruby, I don't know if I should allow this. It's not…"

"Are there visiting hours?" she asks. "I can come back."

He folds his arms. "Just." He eyes her carefully and Ruby stares back evenly. She's not backing down on this. "Fine," he says. "_Fast._I'll be right here."

She shrugs. "Okay?" She can practically hear him coming up with theories about what her connection to Black might be—she wonders if there will be new rumors in town tomorrow. Maybe not—cop or no, he does actually seem like a pretty good guy.

Black watches, still with that slight smile, all benign friendliness; but there's something in his eyes, she thinks—something wary. Calculating. He's lurking in his bunk, hunched, legs kicked out in front of him in faded, beat-up jeans. One of his hands fiddles idly with an unlit cigarette, turning it end over end between long fingers.

Ruby smiles. "Hi." He gets up, crosses the couple yards separating them. He's small for a man; she thinks she might be taller than him even without her heels.

"Hi," he returns, crow's feet crinkling as his smile deepens.

He seems content to wait for her to speak, so Ruby says what's on her mind. "I heard from this guy"—she jerks her head in the sheriff's direction—"that you can't make bail."

"Did you, now?"

She folds her arms. "I don't think it's fair. You haven't been sentenced—you're just… in limbo."

Black's smile goes crooked, like he's got an invisible hook at the corner of his mouth, tugging it to one side. "Your sympathy is appreciated. Is that all you came by for?"

"No." She looks him up and down, taking in the wrinkled clothes, the flecks of gray in his shaggy hair. It's not sympathy she feels, not exactly; she doesn't know what it is. There's something almost familiar about him. "How about you and I work out a deal?"

He blinks. Then his eyes go wide, lighting up his face; he leans into the bars. "A deal," he repeats. "And why would you want to do that?"

Ruby ignores his question. "How much do you owe?"

"Three hundred," the sheriff supplies, apparently deciding he's kept his distance long enough. "Ruby, can I talk to you?"

"No." Not even bothering to look at him. "I don't have three hundred on me," she tells Black.

He grins a shit-eating grin. Shifts his grip on the bars. "Come back tomorrow."

"You'll pay me back," she says.

"Of course, of course. You can count on me, dear—Ruby, was it? I always honor these sorts of… agreements."

"Good." She's tempted to ask him what other agreements like this he's been involved with, but doesn't. She's been here long enough. "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow." His eyes flash with something and she realizes—she's seen those eyes before. Over and over, on paper, under her bed. She swallows as she turns to go, throat suddenly dry. The sheriff watches her, frowning. She steps past him and out to her car without another word.


End file.
